


Standing By III

by oooknuk



Series: Standing By [3]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-27 20:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10816245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oooknuk/pseuds/oooknuk
Summary: Will Ahriman destroy MacLeod before his own sense of honour does? And just where is Methos when you need him?A new beginning and maybe some closure.





	Standing By III

"He's not coming, is he?"

Joe paused before he answered the flat question. Mac _sounded_ calm. Joe couldn't see his face as Mac had his back turned, washing out his little teapot, but it didn't look like he was going to lose it because Methos wasn't coming back. On the other hand.... Hell, if he lied, Mac would be mad, and if he didn't he might go crazy. Some choice.

"No. Sorry, pal, I tried to talk him into it... I don't get it, I thought...."

Mac suddenly turned and smiled, a little ruefully, but with no sign of anger. "Don't, Joe. I know why. I frightened the living crap out of him last year."

"You scared the shit out of both of us," Joe felt compelled to correct.

"Yes. I know. Did he ever tell you how bad it was?"

Joe nodded, not really sure if he wanted to have this conversation right now. "He kinda hinted."

"I put him through pure hell. No wonder he doesn't want to see me."

"He didn't say that, MacLeod!" Joe said emphatically. "He just said... look, he couldn't deal with it, all right?"

"Did he tell you to leave town?"

Joe stared. Mac didn't seem angry, hadn't raised his voice, even though he'd guessed his best friend had deserted him. "Yeah," he said reluctantly. "But I'm not listening to him."

"Don't be angry with him, Joe. He's worried about you. In a way, I'm glad he's not here. I can't spare the time and energy to convince him I'm not insane, and if I succeeded, God knows what Ahriman would do to him."

Joe's heart turned to ice within him. Mac was warning him that throwing himself into the fray on his behalf could be risky. Joe's recent conversation with Methos came back all clearly.

Joe hadn't spoken to him since he'd split Paris a month before, but he had received a tentative, apologetic email clearly designed to let Joe know that the friendship wasn't dead even after their final bitter exchange in the bar. He had replied immediately, gratefully, but he knew, as Methos knew, that while MacLeod was missing, the stress would continue to put enormous strain on them both. It was good Methos had taken that job, and Joe knew any day soon, he would finally be able to pick up the reins of his own life and get on with things. In his head, he'd marked the anniversary of Richie's death when he would lay his grief aside, only to be picked up in moments of solitude and privacy. Methos would recover from the strain soon enough, and they could talk again.

But that had all been shot to hell with MacLeod's sudden reappearance at the graveyard, just as Joe was talking to Richie. In one way, it was an incredible relief. Mac looked fantastic - he _had_ cut his hair, to Joe's astonishment, but it was hardly a disguise. It was more like looking at MacLeod concentrate, all his finest features emphasised. It shed years off his apparent age, emphasising his strong cheekbones, his eyes and his long neck. He'd lost weight, and toned up, not bad for someone who was already in magnificent shape to begin with. He looked even more like the classier brand of male model than he had before, and mentally Joe reappraised up the going rate for snapshots of the Highlander which always seemed to be floating around Watcher HQ.

But on the other hand, he was still going on about Ahriman, and worse, wanting Joe's help. The Watcher was conflicted - angry that Mac could turn up and look so good and sane after a year which had been almost unbearable for his friends, worried that the appearance of sanity wasn't matched by the reality, and anxious to do whatever he could to keep Mac alive and safe. He had needed time to think, and more than that, he had needed to speak to Methos.

It had not gone well. Methos was cautiously glad to hear from him and eager to know all about Mac's return and his present state. But the silences at the end of the phone had got longer, until Joe finally put the cards on the table. "He wants my help, Adam. He needs you too."

Methos was unmoved by his plea. "What he needs, Joe, is good psychiatric care, and what _you_ need is to get the hell away from him, right now. If he manages to kill you, it could destroy him. If I return, my death would cripple him. I can't believe you're even considering encouraging this lunacy."

"He sounds okay, Adam. He's not raving. He's focussed on the goal...."

"Yes, like any other compulsive obsessive. Listen to me, Joe. Leave town. Ask to be reassigned. Do whatever you can to save yourself and leave him alone."

Joe had become angry at that. "That ain't _my_ style," he said coldly, knowing that he would infuriate Methos but didn't care.

He was right. Methos' tones were icily precise. "If you're saying it's mine, Dawson, so be it. But at least I won't be there, allowing a sick man to continue believing his delusions and leading him towards his own destruction."

"No, buddy, you'll be sitting on your shiny Immortal ass, safe and sound, while Mac's real friends stand by him,"

Methos had hung up on him then. Joe had thrown the receiver across the desk in disgust. What did he expect from an Immortal? To them, everyone was expendable.

Mac was watching him now. "Sorry, just thinking," Joe said.

"You had a fight with him over me, didn't you," Mac said sorrowfully.

"Uh...." Joe didn't want to admit what they had argued about.

"Look, Joe, I know Methos and I know you. I know he wants what's best for me, so do you. I want you to promise that when this is all over, you'll give me a chance to make it up to you both."

Joe wasn't even slightly sure this was possible. "Okay, pal. But we could do with his translation skills."

"I know, but we can work around it. Come on, there's a lot of work to do."

 

* * *

Things got bad, and then worse, but finally it was over. It was more than a month after the brief drink they'd shared, marking an astonishingly banal end to an astonishingly awful period, before Mac was back in Joe's bar. Not that they hadn't met up before, but it was usually at the barge, or for coffee. Joe wasn't comfortable with the Highlander in his place any more - the ghost of Horton/Ahriman seemed to linger and he was still inclined to get more than a few goose bumps if he had his back turned and he heard an English accent from among his customers. But Mac had a few things to discuss, and after all, there wasn't actually any reason for them not to use the bar, especially when Joe had to work for two. Mike had the fucking mumps, of all things. How stupid was that?

As had once been MacLeod's habit, he turned up at the end of the evening, so they could talk as he helped Joe close up, and as they shared a glass of the good stuff without the demands of the patrons. So he was reading at the end of the bar, sipping a coffee and waiting out the last few minutes before closing, when Joe saw him stiffen and turn. By instinct, Joe checked his gun behind the bar. "Methos," he heard Mac say softly.

And there he was, in a long dark coat, dark clothes, his pale face the only bright spot. He came up to the bar. "Hello, Mac, Joe."

"Methos...," Mac began eagerly, but Joe put up his hand to silence him.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, deliberately rude. "We're closing!" he yelled at the room, and the few people still nursing their drinks.

Methos waited quietly with an oblique expression on his lean face, standing aside politely as the last of the bar flies left. Joe stood by the door. "You can leave too."

"Joe!" Mac said, horrified.

Joe ignored him. "You heard me, Methos. You weren't here when we needed you, you can shift your butt now. You ain't welcome here anymore."

Methos stiffened. "Joe, I came here to talk, to see how you and Mac are."

"Now you come. Now, when all the danger's over."

Methos turned to MacLeod. "Mac, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Methos. Why don't you stay and have a drink?"

"I don't appear to be welcome. Look, I'll be at the hotel Marie Sainte for the weekend - call me?"

He turned and walked to the door. Joe continued to glare as the old Immortal passed him but then Methos looked at him. "Joe, I wish you'd let me explain."

"You had your chance," Joe gritted, concealing how much it fucking _hurt_ to see him again, and how much it cost to watch him leave. But the guy had turned his back on them. He couldn't be trusted. And Joe had had a gutful of friends who ran at the first sign of trouble.

He locked the door but Mac was there immediately, wanting to be let out. "What the _hell_ is wrong with you, Joe? I want him here. I asked to him to come back to Paris."

"Fine, you talk to him. But watch your back, MacLeod. Cos the only person he cares about is him. None of us matter so long as he stays alive."

"That's not true! "

Joe indicated the unlocked door. "Well there you go, Mac. No one is getting in your way."

Growling, the Highlander threw the door open and ran after his errant friend.

Joe locked the door again and slumped against the doorjamb. He had dreamed of Methos walking through that door a dozen times. He'd needed his support so much, but when he'd put his hand out, it had been slapped. He'd been fooling himself. Immortals were different from real people. He'd put up with MacLeod because of the Watchers and, well, they had history. But he owed Methos squat.

A little voice said, _what about the time he saved your ass over the Shapiro thing? And who held you as you cried over Richie?_ Shut up, he told the little voice, and poured himself a triple. He had to get over Methos. He had to stop making friends with people who were going to outlive him and everyone he knew. And he had to stop giving a damn.

The Scotch was nearly gone when there was a ferocious banging on the glass door. He ignored it - it wasn't unusual for people to see him inside after closing hours and assume, sign on the door to the contrary, that the bar was still open for business. But whoever it was, wasn't taking 'no' for an answer so he levered himself up wearily and prepared to tell them to 'allez-vous en'.

But it was Mac, and behind him, an all too obviously reluctant Methos. Joe thought about flipping Mac the bird and walking away but he and the Highlander had shared too much recently for Joe to dismiss him. But he glared at both of them as he opened up, and then ignored Methos. "MacLeod, it ain't polite to invite people who ain't welcome."

Mac glowered. "Shut up, Dawson. I've had enough of the pair of you."

Oh, so had Methos chewed him a new one too? Or had Mac been telling Methos a few home truths. "So make yourselves at home, it's not like I own the place or nothin'."

Methos moved to a table, and continued to look everywhere but at Joe. Mac fetched a bottle and three glasses from the bar. Joe put his hand over one glass. "Not for me, MacLeod. I only drink with friends."

Methos' head came up at that, and he grimaced. Mac looked at Joe. "I'm your friend, Joe Dawson, and I'm asking you to drink with me."

"And him?"

"Methos is my friend, and I am asking him to drink with me too."

The Highlander was going to do this, no matter what, and Joe resolved to grit his teeth and put up with the bullshit. It didn't make any difference to him.

The whiskeys were poured and distributed. "Now, both of you, drink."

Methos spoke for the first time. "And what exactly is this touching ritual going to prove, MacLeod?"

"Yeah, MacLeod. I don't see him becoming less of an asshole because of a Scotch."

Methos' hand tightened around his glass. "Your feelings about me are well-established, Dawson. You might spare us the boredom of repeating yourself."

"What's the matter, Methos? Truth hurt?"

Mac slammed his fist on the table. "Stop it! You two are friends, whatever you think. Joe, Methos saved my life when Richie died. And you saved my life when I got back. To my mind, you both did the right thing as you saw it. Methos had no way of knowing if I was crazy or if there really was a demon. He didn't see Horton."

"Who saw Horton?" Methos asked, puzzled.

"I did," Joe said curtly, then took a big gulp of his Scotch. Methos stared. "Don't look at me as if I'm crazy, you heartless bastard. I saw him twice. The last time, he gave me back my legs. Said I could get to keep them if I abandoned Mac. What did he offer you?"

Methos stood and stumbled back out of the chair. "You're both insane," he said. "There are no such things as demons, I know that like I know my nose is big and my hair is brown. Joe, the stress...."

"Aw, shut the hell up, Methos - you think you know everything? Didn't Mac tell you what the fuck's been going on?"

Methos had backed up all the way against the bar, and Joe knew he was moving his hand to his gun, just to be sure. Mac stood up and Methos moved away. "Methos, calm down. Joe, have you got those photos and things in your office?"

"Yeah, but I moved 'em. You hang onto Mr Death here, I'll go get 'em."

When he returned, Methos was sitting at the table again, but with a wariness which meant he was ready to run at any sign of kookiness. Joe dropped the file box on the table with a thump. "Open it, Methos."

Methos lifted the lid diffidently. The first thing he saw was the photos of the dead Watchers. "You think Mac did that? Horton told me that he - I mean, Ahriman - was going to kill our people in the field, and we found them just as he said. Explain that one." Methos reached out and touched the photos, then withdrew his hand quickly as if the thing repelled him. "And before you say anything, Mac has an alibi. Mac, tell him about Sophie Baines."

The story Mac told of the two deaths of Sophie Baines left Methos open-mouthed with horror. "You know this is completely and utterly impossible," he said flatly.

"You don't believe me? Go talk to Father Robert, go talk to Sophie's little brother. They saw the dead walking and talking, Methos," Mac told him. "Unless you think the hallucinations are catching - and that's as crazy as demons - then why reject our explanation? Are you going to tell me you know everything? Even after five thousand years, you can't be surprised?"

Methos shook his head and lifted the photos from the box. Seeing the Watcher reports, he picked those up too, and then seemed to forget Joe and Mac were there, as he read. Joe watched the change of expression from disbelief to horror to a reluctant understanding, and realised that they had at last made their point. "But you were certifiable, Mac. Classic signs of psychosis. No doctor in the world would have argued with my having you put away."

"Yes, I know, Methos. That's what Joe needs to understand. I _was_ crazy. Mad with grief, mad with being tormented by Ahriman - he was with us the whole time, standing behind you as you tried to help, never letting me sleep or be alone for a second. That's what I had to get away from you. He knew you would keep trying to help if I stayed, and he would never give me any peace if I did. I'm sorry for what I did."

At last, a faint smile, which disappeared quickly. "Mac, I'm sorry too. Joe, you were right, I should have stayed. I should have come back."

Joe just grunted, even though the apology went a long way to healing the burning pain in his heart. Mac wasn't having it though. "Methos, I'm glad you stayed away. After what Ahriman did to Joe, I knew whoever I involved in this would be his victim too. I shouldn't have involved Joe, but it was too late - and I needed the Watchers. Believe me, old man, I don't feel angry towards you." He looked at Joe. "I think you should try to forgive him."

Joe and Methos looked at each other. "Joe? Can you forgive me? You know I was trying to do the right thing."

"Aw, hell. Yeah, okay." Methos' face split into a huge grin. "Hey, you don't get home free that easy! Tell us what you're doing here - Cardiff too dull for ya?"

Methos' grin didn't ease at all, and Joe could see the antagonism between them had been as much a burden on the old man as it had been on him. "Actually, yes. I thought I'd chase up some job opportunities in Paris, and as it happens, that post at the Sorbonne I thought I'd missed has opened up again. They interviewed for it today."

"And?" Joe had to ask.

"And you're now looking at the new Assistant Professor in Middle-European Languages."

Mac slapped Methos' back. "Good for you, Methos!" He poured out a fresh round of drinks, and lifted his own glass. "To your return to Paris."

"To yours," Methos replied solemnly. "And to your surviving Ahriman."

"Amen," Joe said with unfeigned gratitude. "So, when do you move back?"

"In a month or so. I have to work out my notice. The Sorbonne are happy to wait. I gather their first choice was, ah, no great loss." He looked a little smug.

Of course, it wasn't as easy as that. Even when Mac had explained that he'd called Methos in Cardiff to try and persuade him to at least visit Paris again, Joe resented that the Highlander had that sort of pull, and he didn't. The souls of the dead Watchers weighed heavily on his conscience too, and he couldn't help but think that with Methos' help, those four people - good people, trying to do a good thing - might be alive. He kept his thoughts to himself, though. Mac was too happy that Methos was going to be around again. Even that made Joe feel jealous.

Methos was back in just over a month, having arranged to apartment-sit a place a couple of miles from the bar. Not close to the barge any more - not really close to either of them, but that didn't stop him dropping into the bar most evenings with Mac into the bar. Never on his own, though. The old guy must have picked up on the still hostile vibes, because he never once called or visited, even though he was friendly as he'd ever been when Mac was around.

It was his own goddamn fault, Joe knew that. If he'd just pick up the phone, invite Methos over, they could thrash this out like grown ups. But he was scared. There - he had to admit that. He was scared of Methos hurting him all over again. He'd been a damn idiot to let his heart get so involved, a fool to think that Methos even noticed him when the much sexier, Immortal fuck magnet called Duncan MacLeod was around. And he had been stupid to forget his Watcher's oath again, and let himself become entwined in the life of yet another Immortal. How many does it take, Dawson? he berated himself. How many times is being friendly with the aliens gonna rip your heart to bits before you get the message? They're not you. They're nothing like you, and their lives are full of violence and grief, for themselves and their friends. Stay away. Just like you're supposed to.

Still, it wasn't Methos fault that it was just two hours after Joe's daughter had delivered another load of pain when Joe found the old man making free with his laptop in the back of the bar. The place was closed anyway - Mike was off sick again, so was the new barmaid, both with flu - and so he'd just shut the bar up after Amy's call. He'd driven over to Watcher HQ to see if he could find out more on this Walker guy, but there wasn't any more information than the Watcher Database held. He could have done with a friendly chat with another experienced field supervisor about Amy's plight, but 'friendly chats' didn't happen in a paranoid organisation, even after Jack Shapiro's reign of terror was just an unpleasant memory.

He'd driven back, mad at himself, worried sick for his girl, and angrier than fuck at the rules which meant the Walkers of this world literally got away with murder because of a genetic accident - and found another of that immoral kind had let himself into the bar and was using the database like a rolodex. Okay, so the guy had set it up when he was a Watcher - but he wasn't a Watcher now.

Joe'd growled and snapped at his unexpected visitor, and had been bitten hard by a man who'd dropped the harmless 'Adam Pierson' persona long since but who still looked like the harmless grad student Joe had liked so much. Methos could flay a man to death with his tongue, never mind his fucking sword, and Joe got the full force of his disgust before he stalked out, making it clear in every line of his body that Joe was beneath his contempt or notice. It was only after that Joe realised that Methos had just handed him a slice of his past which, he was damn sure, even Mac didn't know about. Methos had been a doctor, he'd known that - but someone who treated slaves? Went against the whole selfish act. But maybe it had been part of a game back then too - and who said he was telling the truth now?

He went back and opened up the bar for business, but his mind was doubly distracted - by Amy and by Methos. Both nominally part of his life, for very different reasons, both distanced from him by history. You're gonna die a lonely bitter old man, Joe Dawson, he told himself. But he didn't have the luxury of self-pity for long - Amy had got herself kidnapped by her assignment. Joe's fault completely - he should have known she wasn't up to a field assignment, he'd let his hopes for her career blind him - and now he would literally do anything to get her back safe. Even crawl on hands and knees to Methos.

But when he called the new house, he got a shock. In two languages he was assured that "Adam Pierson is currently unavailable. Please call...," giving the number of the service Methos used when he was out of town. That, and the code word 'unavailable' told Joe that the old man had decided to run. And that was his fault too. If he didn't fix it - now - he couldn't save his daughter. To do that, he'd lick or suck whatever he had to, do whatever it took. Just let Amy be okay.

He was just in time - Methos was seconds from driving away. Joe was more than a little relieved at how lightly he got off - just a wiseass crack about interference - but he couldn't credit his own charm. No, that had to be Methos' survival instincts, spotting the thugs in the van. Taking a bullet meant for him. Dying....

The image of Methos diving in front of him, falling to the ground dead, kept coming back to Joe over the next few hours, even as he argued and plotted, preparing to sacrifice a friend for his daughter, hating himself, and being unable to respond to Methos' teasing silliness in the way it deserved. Later, when it was all over, he would appreciate the way his friend had put all their arguments and hurtful conversations behind him, and just gone to and done what was needed. Even at the time, he was guiltily grateful that Methos had not delivered the dressing down he deserved for his planned betrayal. Dressing down? He was lucky the guy hadn't drawn his sword and killed him where he stood. But that was the thing about Methos - he just didn't carry grudges. When you compared him to an asshole like Morgan Walker - if you compared him to ninety-nine percent of Immortals, that made him pretty unusual.

But time to reflect on all this was short as they raced to save Amy. Joe didn't want to think about what he was prepared to sacrifice to get her back - or what would happen if they failed. Only once she was in his arms, and Methos stood between them and Walker, did Joe begin to think there was a chance they would get out of this alive. Methos told them to leave, but he'd only retreated to safety, the habits of a lifetime as a Watcher and his desire to see the son of a bitch go down were too strong to fight.

Amy was bug-eyed. She'd likely only seen films of Quickenings and maybe one or two Challenges - a fight like this was special. He'd only seen the old guy fight the once - that titanic battle against Silas was something he'd never forget - but he figured that something had kept him alive for five thousand years. Now that something was on show. Man, the guy was good. And cool. Nothing like Mac, who was also a lethal, efficient killer. Methos fought with distaste, economically. A few words for Walker's epitaph and then a single, massively powerful swing. No hint of Adam Pierson in that killing blow. No hint of the often reflective, gentle man Joe had come to know either, or of the silly ass he'd been playing all day.

But afterwards, Methos was gentle enough. Amy was wary and way curious about this new evidence of Joe's broken Watcher oath, but she was too well-mannered to quiz either of them, and Methos left the two of them to themselves as he drove them back to Chartres and his abandoned vehicle. They swapped then, leaving Walker's car on the side of the road for the police to deal with, and Methos drove them back to Paris, apparently deaf and dumb to the quiet conversation Joe was having with Amy in the back seat.

"He took me like a wet behind the ears kid," she said bitterly. "No surprise there, I suppose."

"Amy, Walker was scum. You lucked out getting him."

"It's your fault I was in that position to begin with, Joe," she said, turning a resentful face to him - a face, so like her mother's. "I wasn't good enough for field work. You knew that."

"The placing at the Academy doesn't tell us anything, Amy. I didn't pick you for fieldwork - your tutor put you forward. All I did was push you up the queue a little. You got this on your own merits. You think you're the first Watcher to be picked up by their assignment? You ever read the Kalas files?"

"No," she admitted, so he told her about that. And about the other cases. He knew Methos could hear all this, but he made absolutely no comment, for which Joe was heartily grateful. When he was done, she smiled ruefully. "So I'm not even very unusual."

"No, kid. But you are special." She turned her enormous eyes on him, but didn't say anything. She wasn't ready for a father-daughter thing. But she was alive. And the person he had to thank for that just drove on until they reached Paris.

While Methos changed out of his torn, bloody sweater, Joe offered Amy a drink but she refused, perhaps unwisely. She was at the end of her energy, and Joe's hands were still shaking over how close to disaster they had been. She didn't say anything for a long time, and Methos had quietly and discreetly taken up a position at the bar before Joe finally asked her, "So. Where do we go from here?"

The answer was 'nowhere' - or at least, not yet. She was still hurt about Joe's secret, too much information in too short a space of time. She needed to assimilate it all. Joe just hoped she wouldn't take too long. She had no one in her life - he wanted to be someone for her, not just her boss, but also her dad. She wasn't ready for that. Going by the look she gave him as she left, she never would be.

Methos disagreed, unfurling himself from the bar, and bringing the Scotch and two glasses with him. "She'll be back," he said simply. "And how do you know?"

"Because I'm very old and wise." Methos lifted his glass in salute "To someday."

Joe could drink to that, because he had to believe it. He thought once she'd been saved, he would feel better, but his heart ached. All the missed opportunities, never to have seen her grow up. No one to call him 'daddy'.

"Joe, I really do think she'll come back," Methos said gently, breaking into his self-pitying reverie, and the interruption made him snap back unthinkingly.

"Yeah, like you know so much about kids."

Methos went very still, then, moving slowly, poured himself another drink. "I know a little. I know people."

Joe regretted his words instantly "I'm sorry, man, I...."

Methos held up his hand. "No."

"No?"

"No. I don't want your apology."

Joe pushed himself back from the table, and glared. "Then what do you want?' he asked, more belligerently than the guy deserved. What is wrong with you? Joe asked himself. He's only trying to help.

"I want, Joe Dawson, to make my peace with you. But perhaps today is a bad day for that. When you're ready to talk, you call. I'll be here." Then he stood.

Joe looked up at him in confusion. "But you were running...."

"I was making a strategic retreat of a temporary nature. Haven't you ever done that?"

"Yeah, I guess. Methos, do you have to go? Now, I mean?"

Methos cocked his head, apparently confused. "Joe, it's been a long and very stressful day for you, and with Amy...."

"I know, and that's why... that's why I could do with a friend."

Again, Methos went very still, and Joe was beginning to realise this was the Immortal's way of dealing with pain. "Are we friends?"

"We used to be."

"Yes. We used to be. Before... before Ahriman. Before this morning."

"Before you took a bullet for me and saved my daughter's life, you mean."

Methos shook his head in dismissal of the point. "Walker was a problem I should have dealt with two hundred years ago. You were right. It's not like I don't know it's stupid to leave psychopaths wandering around."

"You could have left her with him. You could have walked out on both of us."

Methos bared his teeth. "I could have cut my right arm off too - do you really think so little of me?" He turned, but instead of heading to the door, he walked to the bar and leaned on it, facing away from Joe, staring into the glassware and the mirror behind it. "But of course you do," he said, almost to himself. "What else can you think after what I did to you and Mac?"

It had been what Joe had been thinking, but now, hearing it, he knew it for the unfairness it was. "No, man, Mac was right. You had your reasons...."

Methos turned. "Did I? Who's the doctor here? You were right, Joe. I should have been here. Even if Mac had been insane, as I believed, I could have helped him. Sean Burns wasn't the only one who knows a little about Immortal psychology. I could have done something."

"So why didn't you?" Joe asked baldly.

"Fear."

"Of MacLeod? Him killing you?" It seemed unlikely.

Methos grimaced. "No. Of being forced to kill him. I very nearly had to once before. I still wake up in a cold sweat thinking about it."

"It's what you guys do. You should be used to it." Damn, that was cold. But Joe had a lot of hurt stored inside him, and Methos was a convenient target. A target who carried a sword, even if he was unlikely to use it on a mortal antagonist.

But the old man only moved away from the bar and sat down at his table, looking at him dully. "One day, Joe, one day sooner than you imagine, I may - likely will - have to face Duncan. He's the best of us, I'm the oldest. I've known ever since I first read his chronicle that the Game will probably come down to him and me, at sword point. But," he said fiercely, suddenly reaching across, "I will do everything in my power to delay that day, delay it forever, if I can. Because I believe he could no more bear to be my murderer than I could be his. I would spare him that pain. And, because I'm a coward as you know, I would spare myself that too."

He stood again, and walked swiftly to the door. "And because of knowing this, perhaps, as you think, we are too different to be friends. Goodnight, Joe." And then he was gone.

Joe was in shock - nothing about what had just happened was expected. Not Methos' admission, not the reason he stayed away, not his sudden departure. Certainly not the lack of recriminations. Methos had accepted what he perceived to be Joe's judgment and moved on. No argument, no protest.

And the way he just _assumed_ the Game would leave him and Mac as the last two Immortals standing. With no arrogance, just a chilling certainty...and grief.

Always the Game. That was the thing that made Immortals different. Not the long lives, not the freedom from illness. But the vicious, mindless, fucking _pointless_ idiocy that had taken so many good people, had driven so many insane. Somehow, Joe had always hoped that Methos didn't believe in it, that if it came to him and MacLeod, the damn thing would be over because Methos would never kill Mac, nor Mac take his head. He was wrong about that, obviously.

The pain in his heart over Amy dulled a little as he contemplated the emptiness of the future Methos saw for himself. And then he knew Methos was wrong. They weren't so different. Joe knew loneliness, despair, like old friends. Methos had lived five thousand years and all he would have at the end of it was a sharp knife at his neck, or the death of the man he loved. Because Mac was never gonna give up the Prize. He believed in it, Connor had taught him too well. He would never turn his back on the chance to bring world peace, or whatever the Prize could bring. Not even for Methos.

Wearily, he picked up the glasses and the bottle, dropped them behind the counter. The bar was closed again, and he'd put the sign out to say so, but out of habit he stumped to the front door to check that it was locked and that there was no one hanging about. To his surprise, Methos' car was still outside, and so was Methos, sitting at the wheel, staring into space. Swearing, Joe quickly unlocked the door and walked out. Maybe this wasn't past fixing.

He opened the car's passenger door, startling the driver. "We ain't done," he said briefly. "And I ain't seen your new place yet. So drive, will ya?"

Methos stared, and then smiled a little. "Yes, sir," he snapped off, and then turned the engine on and put it into gear.

He stopped to collect some groceries while Joe waited in the car. They didn't speak for the short drive to the new apartment, and all Methos said when they arrived was, "There's no lift."

"Don't mind," Joe said simply.

It was only two flights, not something he'd want to climb everyday, but doable nonetheless. The apartment itself was extremely modern, all white and brushed steel. Not his thing at all, and Methos looked out of place there too. His disapproval went unnoticed as Methos went straight to the kitchenette and put the coffee machine on. "I haven't eaten all day - would you like some pasta?"

"Yeah, sure, if it's no trouble."

"It's pasta, Joe. It translates as 'no trouble'."

Suddenly uncomfortable with inviting himself over where he'd never been asked, Joe sat stiffly on one elegant armchair, not indulging his natural curiosity by poking around. Methos ignored him except to bring coffee over. The smell of the cooking food woke his appetite up sharply and the plate of fettuccine with pesto was very welcome. As was the bottle of wine.

Still, neither of them spoke, except for polite requests for bread or wine or salad. Finally, feeling more human and calm with the food and the alcohol, Joe took his courage in his hands. "You don't have to kill Mac," he said.

"No. I could let him kill me." Methos wouldn't look at him.

"You could just agree not to kill each other."

Now the hazel eyes turned on him sardonically. "Oh yes, that'd be nice. Except that it doesn't seem to work like that."

"You ever ask yourself why?"

"Only once or twice a day for the last five thousand years."

"Man, how can you do that? Live knowing you might have to kill your best friend?"

"Sometimes I wonder that too. Joe, is this what's on your mind? The Game?" Methos began to shred a piece of bread, a sure sign of his discomfort.

"No, it's not. You are. Us. I thought we were friends."

"Didn't we just have this conversation?"

"Don't be a wise ass, Methos, help me out. You're saying that you stayed away because you were afraid you would have to take Mac's head. All I'm saying is that I get that. I was wrong to be so crappy to you about it."

Methos shook his head. "I told you. No apologies. You acted honourably. I did the best I could, even though it wasn't enough. If you forgive me, then I thank you. If not, well," he shrugged, "we were friends even though you didn't like me very much a lot of the time. We could be friends again."

"You make it sound like a chore. You get nothing out of hanging out with mortals, do you?" he said bitterly, and fuck, this was _not_ what he'd come here for.

"Only life, Joe. Love, passion, friendship. Joy, laughter - music. Mere trivialities." He tossed off the wine in his glass. "I'm going to have a whiskey. Want one?"

"Okay." He'd made Methos angry again. And he didn't know where to start to fix it. "Methos, what do you want? Do you just want us to be friends for Mac's sake? Or for your own?"

"What a bloody ego, Joe Dawson. Do you honestly think I'd put up with you because of MacLeod?" It should have been a joke, but the tone was too bitter.

"You put up with Richie. Presumably for Mac."

Methos snorted. "I hardly saw Richie, and the child and I knew where we stood. I'm sorry he's dead, but I would never claim to have been his best friend. But you, Joe. You. You and me. Do you only put up with me and my idiocies for him?"

Oh, man, if he only knew. "No. You know that ain't so."

"And there you have it." Methos gave him a glass, two fingers of fine old Scotch, no ice, the way he liked it. "Ask yourself - do you think I was hurt by what you said before I went to Cardiff?"

"I guess so. I know I was pretty mad."

"Yes. But do you think _I_ was angry?"

Yes.... he stopped himself. "I guess so," he repeated.

Methos smiled sadly and then retreated to an armchair. Joe stayed where he was. "See, that is the essence of our problem, you and I. I feel myself too close to mortals, and you think me too distant. Given my past, that's understandable, but a little ironic considering that you have been keeping me alive for all these years. I can't live without mortal kind, Joe. I'm a junkie. I adore you in all your vigour and life. With the rare exception, I avoid Immortals because they have forgotten what it is like to live life to the full."

"MacLeod being an exception?"

"One of the very few sane ones."

Joe thought of Byron, and knew what Methos was talking about. "But you're still on the outside, looking in."

Methos barked a laugh. "And this is where I'm supposed to do the 'if you cut me, do I not bleed?' speech, right? Except I bleed fine until I heal and then what do I do? Joe, I don't think this is about Immortals. This is about me. I let you down. You're mad about it. And to justify the unjustifiable, you're telling yourself that it's because I'm Immortal, when it could just as easily be because I'm a prick."

That surprised a laugh out of Joe, and he choked a little on his Scotch. When he stopped sputtering and wiped his eyes, Methos was grinning a little. "Oh, man, you really are a prick sometimes. No, I ain't mad any more. I just coulda done with you. It was touch and go there for a while, you know?"

"Yes, I know. I'm more sorry than you can know," Methos said softly, rising and coming over to top up Joe's drink. "Tell me more about what happened."

"About...?"

"Yes, Ahriman. Did you know when you saw Mac again that he wasn't crazy?"

Joe turned the whiskey glass around, staring into it. "I wasn't sure. But I figured I was all he had, I couldn't just walk away."

"Fuck, Joe... you took too much of a risk."

"Did you really expect me to walk away, Methos?" The two men stared at each other. "I'm not getting at you - you'd already gone. I was here - I couldn't...."

"But you wouldn't have come back - if he asked?"

Those dark eyes saw too much. "I... maybe. Maybe not. I didn't see him like you did this time. I think it was easier for me to see him as sane, because I hadn't really seen him be that crazy this time. You've seen him out of his skull twice."

Methos winced. "Not something I want to repeat, I can tell you. If it hadn't been for the first time, maybe I'd have been slower to write him off. It was unfortunate. It's all still a lot to comprehend. I accept what you told me about Ahriman here," he said touching his head, "but part of me still... rejects it. I've lived a long time not believing anything other than what I can see and verify for myself. Demons aren't in that category."

"But you believed in that spring," Joe said, sipping his drink and relaxing. This was a conversation they should have had months back.

"Only because I had seen it work before."

"On you?" Joe had always been curious about that undocumented interlude. Mac had told him very little about what actually happened once they had entered the holy spring.

"No. A young Immortal I, uh... befriended," 'uh, huh' Joe thought, "... overloaded on too many Quickenings taken too fast. Not exactly a Dark Quickening, but he was being driven insane by the weight of the emotions and memories. Now, of course, I might have dismissed it as mental illness, but back then, I was willing enough - desperate enough - to let him follow a lead he'd read about, to go to the spring."

"And it worked?"

"Yes." Methos looked down for a moment, and Joe wondered if the story was over.

"So you were sure it would work on Mac."

"No."

"You think you could try some polysyllabic words on me? I've been reading for years and years, you know."

Methos looked at him and smiled. "Sorry. Just remembering. You want to know where the real power of the spring lay? What its magic was - is?"

"You know what it is?" Joe asked, surprised.

"Of course. It's the mind, Joe. There's nothing magical about that spring at all. It's just very beautiful, with some amazing luminescent effects. My friend, Duncan - they cured themselves. All they needed was to convince themselves that they would be cured, and they were."

Joe snorted. "Your friend, maybe - you're forgetting I saw Mac. He was crazier than a weasel on speed. I couldn't reach him, Richie couldn't, hell, he almost killed you, you told me that. You're saying it was all in his mind?"

"I'm saying," Methos said slowly, steepling his hands, "that the _cure_ was in his mind. The Dark Quickening was real. Trust me, I know that for certain. But the only thing an Immortal can do with one is let it settle. There's only two ways of doing that - wait it out, or think it out."

"Hold on a minute, pal - when did you become an expert on these things? You didn't tell me you knew anything about them when I asked for your help with MacLeod." He squinted at Methos - and realised. "You son of a bitch. You?"

"I don't know what you mean, Joe," Methos deflected, grabbing the whiskey again and topping them both up. Joe was vaguely aware that Methos was now well over the limit to drive, and he wasn't sure he could get back down those stairs again.

"Bullshit you don't. You had a Dark Quickening too."

"No. Not quite. Not as bad as Mac."

"Methos, you are _not_ gonna get out of here without telling me about this," he growled.

"It's my place, Joe, or had you forgotten?"

"Okay, I don't leave until you tell me."

Methos smirked. "Now that's a threat I can get behind." He sobered before saying, "I don't take the bastards well, that's all."

"Quickenings?"

"No." He sighed. "And there have been times in my life when I've overdosed on the things. The only cure I know is to stop taking them, and keep out of the Game. What Duncan experienced was an extreme form of that, I think. Too much, too soon, too many bad people. It would have destroyed a lesser man outright. I wish it hadn't destroyed Jim Koltec," he said sadly.

"So, you think he just talked himself out of it?"

"The placebo effect is very real, Joe. And as Duncan has just demonstrated, his control over his mind is bloody impressive. All the spring did was focus his energies. All _I_ did was prime him for that. A kind of hypnosis if you like." Joe noticed that MacLeod was now 'Duncan' a lot. Well, Methos _was_ getting tiddly.

"Wait - you said, you don't deal with Quickenings well. You absorbed Walker's all right."

Methos grinned and waved the bottle at him. Joe was startled to see it was almost empty. "I drowned it, I guess. That and jerking off in your men's room."

Now if Methos hadn't been drunk, Joe doubted he'd have ever said anything like that. It was an image which did nothing for his own self-control, and he was grateful he had to wear loose slacks because of his legs. Methos continued as if he hadn't said anything untoward. "I guess I could probably do with getting to bed sometime soon. You want me to drive you home? You're welcome to bunk here."

Now Joe didn't mind sleeping away from his place, and away from his wheelchair, but he didn't care to reveal the intimate problems of his existence to a hale-bodied Immortal. "Nah, I can get a taxi...."

"And have Mac take my bloody head? Joe, it's after two am, and I have a perfectly serviceable bed. I can take the spare room. There's an ensuite bathroom, you'll have perfect privacy." Joe was ashamed that Methos had so easily divined the reason for his reluctance. "Besides, a friend would want to see that I was okay after that nasty old Quickening, right?"

"You be careful, Methos, you might cut yourself on that fucking wit of yours one of these years," Joe said sourly.

"I believe more than one person predicted I would come to a sticky end because of it. Let me change the linen."

"Hey, I don't...."

Methos fixed him with a glare. "Dawson, I have _some_ manners. The other bathroom's through there, if you want to clean up. Here," he said, extending a hand and helping him stand.

The warmth of his hand reminded Joe sharply of the day's events, and how he had.... "Methos, I'm sorry."

"Joe, I said...."

"You gotta let me say this, man," Joe said urgently. "I nearly got you killed today. I would have fucked you over. You shoulda walked away from me, from us."

"And I already told you, Joe. Not in this lifetime." Their eyes met, and Joe felt Methos' grip tighten briefly on his hand. "Now, let me sort this bed out for you," he said gently. "You need a good night's sleep even more than I do."

"Aw, man," Joe said, feeling his emotions overtaking him. Damn it, he shouldn't drink when he was tired, he just made an ass of himself.

"Don't worry about it," Methos said and then folded him into a hug. The gesture unmanned him completely, and for a few long moments all he could do was bury his head in the warmth of Methos' shoulder. The Immortal patted him on the back but made no move to pull away. After a minute or two, he said "Are you all right?"

Joe pushed himself off. "Yeah, yeah, just tired."

"Of course. Five minutes."

He was good as his word, and Joe was soon in a wide comfortable bed that still smelled faintly of its owner. He had a headache from the booze and the stress and it took him a long time to drop off, his thoughts chasing around each other over Amy and Methos and Mac and Ahriman.

His head ached even worse when he woke, with pain in his joints that told him it wasn't just a hangover. Fuck, he must be sick. He needed to get home before things got too bad. He could hear Methos moving about - off to work, he guessed. He struggled up to put his legs and pants on, but his head spun, and he had to rest. If he could just get to his legs....

"Joe? I'm off to the university, do you want a lift...? What's wrong?" Methos asked sharply, coming over to him, and easing him back down. A cool hand touched Joe's forehead. "You're hot."

"Got that damn flu that's going around, I guess," he managed to say. The room was really spinning now. "Just help me get dressed, I gotta get home."

"No way, Joe Dawson. You're no shape to walk down those stairs and if this _is_ the flu, I'm not letting you go back to your apartment on your own. You just lie down. I'll make some calls."

"You're not working?" Joe asked blearily.

"No, I was going into the office to catch up, but there's nothing I can't put aside. Relax, Joe. Do you really want to be ill on your own?"

"Methos, I want to get _up_!" Joe was starting to panic. He didn't want to be trapped here, beholden to Methos, without his chair or his board...helpless....

Strong hands held him down. "Joe, please calm down. At least...damn, I don't have any aspirin...."

"Methos...."

"I can go to the shop...."

"Methos, I'm gonna...." _puke_ , he thought, as he did. All over himself. "Aw, shit," he mumbled, embarrassed almost to death.

"It's okay, lie still," Methos said gently. Joe had little choice. He just wanted to get out of here - he hated being fussed over. Especially when he was puking. But right now, he could hardly lift his head. Man, this hit fast.

Methos retuned with a bowl and a washcloth and cleaned the vomit off him, off his beard, and his undershirt, before helping him take it off and cleaning his chest. The cloth felt so cold. He must be running a real temperature. He ached so bad. "Do you really want to try and go home, Joe?" Methos asked him, but he was already pulling the blankets up around him. Joe pushed them away petulantly.

"Yeah, don't mother me. Just help me get my legs on."

"Joe...."

"Don't argue with me, Methos or I'll throw up on you again."

Despite his determination to help himself, he could really only let Methos hold him, and hold his pants as he struggled into the harness again. He felt freezing. "Shirt," he muttered.

Silently, Methos helped him pull his shirt on, but he couldn't hide his concern. "You're in no fit state to go anywhere, you know that."

"Shut up and help me stand." He dragged himself up on Methos' arm and swayed. If his knees had been real, they would have collapsed.

"Well, go on, you're up. Walk to the door," Methos said, a little irritation creeping into his voice.

Joe fumbled for his stick, and it was placed in his hand. "Right," he said meaninglessly.

Where was the door? Why did the floor seem so close? "Oh, fuck," he said, faintly, retching again. Nothing much came up this time

He was held in strong arms, turned around and put back on the bed, stripped efficiently and tucked up like a child. "Just need...." he mumbled.

"I know what you need. Relax, Joe. It gets worse before it gets better."

The room was made dark, and then it got quiet. His head was pounding too hard for him to pay a lot of attention to what Methos was doing, and then he was just too sleepy to care.

The next few days - a week? - were confusing and damn miserable. Pain in all his joints, pounding in his head, relieved a little by cool cloths and the pills and juice held to his lips by gentle hands whenever he woke from restless sleep.

He was too exhausted to move from the bed, but his bladder seemed to have shut down. A couple of times, Methos helped him up to pee - he wondered blearily what, besides the wheelchair, Methos had arranged, but he was really just too ill to care.

The apparently endless succession of confused, painful wakenings and nightmare-laden sleep was not, after all, endless. He woke one morning, and his fever and pain were gone, leaving him with an incredible feeling of fatigue. With an effort he rolled over - to see MacLeod reading quietly in an armchair.

"Mac?" he whispered.

His visitor came to his side immediately. "How do you feel?"

"Get the number of that tank, will ya?"

Mac grinned and felt his forehead. People kept touching him, Joe thought, slightly grumpily. "Temperature's down."

"Where's Methos?" Joe struggled to sit up. Mac helped him, and put another pillow behind him.

"Working the bar."

"Methos?"

"We both have. My turn for babysitting duty."

Joe pulled a face. "Well, I'm all better now, Mac. Haven't you got things to do?"

Mac laughed. "Jesus, Methos said you were a rotten patient and he's right."

"Yuck it up, MacLeod. Where's my legs and my stick?" Mac pulled his wheelchair over to the bed. "Legs, Mac."

"Let's see if you can manage this first, Dawson."

Joe scowled, but as he struggled into the wheelchair, which seemed a lot less stable than he remembered, he grudgingly conceded that maybe the legs were for later.

It felt good to take a piss on his own, and he badly wanted a shower, but he figured he'd better find out more about what a mess his life had become. He didn't even know how long he'd been ill.

Mac made him return to bed, and insisted on feeding him juice and more pills before he would consider talking about the bar. But finally, he explained the bar was running smoothly, Methos had hacked into his Watcher email to send a quick message as Joe....

"He what?" Joe exploded.

"You'd prefer one of us called headquarters? Or that they came down and found out exactly _who_ was looking after you?"

"Son of a bitch, how did he...? I'm gonna have words with him."

Mac pushed him back down with a firm hand on his shoulder. "Settle down, Dawson. No harm done. He wouldn't do it except to help you. He could have done a lot more mischief before now if he'd wanted to."

Sourly, Joe wondered if Methos had ever done so - or at least felt the urge. Maybe after the Galati thing - there was the virus they never traced in the system which ate a few suspiciously incriminating files. "So what else have you done?"

"Well, apart from wiping your ungrateful ass, nothing."

"How long?"

"Just over a week. No need to be so hostile, Joe. Everything's fine." Mac cleared his throat. "I, uh, heard you had a bit of excitement while I was in London."

Joe wondered how much Methos had told him. "What did he say?"

"He said Morgan Walker took one of your people. You and Methos got her back."

"And that's all?"

Mac assumed his most innocent expression. "Was there more?"

"Not a damn thing," Joe growled. Damn, his head still hurt. "I think I want to go back to sleep," he lied.

Without questioning the statement, Mac helped him lie down flat again. Rather to his own surprise, his deception turned out to be the literal truth.

When he woke again, his watcher was Methos. "Ah, the patient wakes. I hear you were in a right old mood before."

Joe glared. "You broke into my computer again. I told you to leave it alone!"

Methos raised his hand defensively. "Joe, I did it to help...."

"Yeah, maybe I don't need that sort of help!" he yelled, and then broke into a sickening cough that made his eyes water. Methos reached to help him. "Back off!" he rasped.

When his vision cleared, he knew he had hurt his friend. "Just... don't like... being weak," he explained feebly.

Methos' expression lifted. "You're just ill, Joe. No shame in that." He reached over and touched Joe's wrist. "I'm sorry about the email - Mac explained why? We couldn't risk it."

"Shoulda left me sort things out, Methos. It ain't the first time I've been sick."

Methos frowned at him and his grip on his wrist tightened. "You were pretty ill, Joe. You weren't capable of looking after yourself. I assumed, perhaps wrongly, you'd prefer it was Mac and me, not...." Joe watched Methos struggle for the name of someone - anyone - in Joe's life who could have done what he had. "Someone else," he finished lamely.

Confronted with the raw evidence of his lonely life, Joe could find nothing to say to that. Methos sat quietly, rubbing Joe's wrist gently, not trying to make him feel better, or to explain. Just offering a little comfort by being there, which hurt, but not as much as not having it.

 

* * *

He moved back to his place in two days, despite Methos' clear objections, and went back to work the next day, despite Mike's. He had a nasty cough hanging on, and by the end of his first hour behind the bar, he had to admit both of them had more than a point. Methos must have realised he would come to his senses soon enough, because he walked in not two hours after opening, told him to go lie down on the sofa in his office, and took over without any more discussion. An hour after that, Methos came in to check on him. "Bar?" Joe asked weakly, coughing. Shit, he was weak as a day old kitten and not half as cute.

"Mac's got it. You're going back to bed, no arguments, if I have to tranquilise you to do it."

Joe was in no shape to argue, and let himself be manhandled up the stairs, thinking it was about time he moved home or got an elevator put in. Methos got him to his bed and stared at him in exasperation. "Joe, I begin to wonder if I have overestimated your intelligence. You're barely able to stand up. What the hell were you thinking?"

Joe stared. The Immortal looked really angry with him. "My life, Methos."

"My friend. Our friend. Our precious, _mortal_ , moronic friend who is going to end up with pneumonia or worse if he does _not_ accept he's been seriously ill and needs to take it easy. Now, since you won't stay with me, any objections to me staying with you?"

"There's no need...."

"Aaargh!" Methos yelled suddenly. "Joseph, will you please stop this! You - sick. Me - doctor. Doctor say, stay in bed, or will use large pointy sharp thing to remove vital organs. Get it?"

"Got it," Joe said, a reluctant grin spreading.

"Good," Methos concluded grumpily. "This place smells, and I bet you haven't got any decent food. When Mike gets back, Mac is going to shop. You are going to sleep. I am going to clean."

"Angling to be Mrs Dawson, Methos?" Joe said, unable to resist the dig.

"I'd have divorced you years ago, you stubborn bugger." Methos touched his forehead. His hand felt dry and cool. "Mmmm. You're a little hot. Did you take any aspirin?"

"No."

Methos growled in annoyance. "Something else to take care of. You don't have the grain of sense you were born with, you know that?"

Joe sighed. He felt like crap and all he wanted to do was sleep again. He nodded, and just hoped Methos would stop ranting soon. Which he did, leaving him in peace briefly before returning to force aspirin on him, cover his forehead with a washcloth, and then darken the room. Joe fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

He felt better - and ashamed - when he woke many hours later. It was evening. Methos was on the sofa, asleep. Joe's chair was right where he needed it to be. So were his legs but he figured he'd already pushed his luck.

He climbed into the chair, but as he started to manoeuvre away from the bed, he heard a low voice. "And _where_ do you think you're going?"

Methos sat up, rubbing his face. He looked tired, Joe thought. "To take a leak, that okay with you?" he said belligerently.

Methos ignored the tone. "You hungry?"

Joe examined the messages from his body. "A little. I got it, Methos."

"Shut up, Joe," Methos said tiredly, getting up and heading over the stove.

Chastened more by the weariness in Methos' voice than the command, he did what he had to do and then wheeled himself back out. Methos was stirring something on the stove, his back to him. Joe felt at a disadvantage, talking to the man from his chair, but he felt too tired himself to manage his legs, and after the last week, he had little real pride when it came to Methos. He already had his heart, he could have his goddamn masculine ego as well, Joe thought, with no irony at all.

"Mac still in the bar?"

"The bar's shut, look at the time," Methos said without turning.

With shock, Joe realised it was after midnight. "Shit, man, I didn't realise. We don't have to do this...."

"You need to eat, and it's already made."

Methos turned and in his hands was a tray with a bowl of steaming stew, and a plate with bread. Joe's stomach growled at the sight - it seemed weeks since he'd eaten a proper meal. Methos motioned him over to the table and watched in silence as he ate. The food tasted wonderful, and Joe felt more solid, more real than he had for days. At last he lifted his head. Methos was looking at him with an unreadable expression. "Go back to bed, Methos. I shouldn't have woken you."

"I'm only here to look after you," Methos said roughly, taking his plate and bowl away and dumping it in the sink.

"Nobody asked you to stay."

"I didn't get to be this old only going where I was invited, Dawson."

He returned with more aspirin and juice. Joe's stomach rebelled and he shook his head.

Methos put the pill bottle down and carefully placed the glass before Joe. "Fine. Do as you like. Don't take two aspirin, don't call me in the morning. Go back to sleep. " He picked his coat and headed for the door.

"Methos, where are you going?" Joe asked, suddenly afraid to be left alone

"What!" Methos snapped, whirling. "What do you _want_ , Dawson?"

Joe was horrified. " Jesus, man, what the hell has gotten into you?"

"Nothing," Methos said through gritted teeth. "Nothing at all. You're fine. I'll see you later." He turned back towards the door.

"Methos!" Shouting pulled on his chest and he began to cough. The fit quickly overtook him and he shook and strained as the coughs tore through him. He found Methos helping him sit up, rubbing his back.

"Easy, easy. Breathe, Joe."

His chest hurt, like he'd torn something. "Water," he croaked. A moment later, a glass was held to his lip and he drank thirstily. "Thanks."

"You need to go back to sleep, Joe," Methos said, more gently than before, and without waiting for permission, pushed his wheelchair over to the bed.

Joe played it a little more feeble than he actually felt, but he was glad Methos was helping. He held onto the Immortal's arm. "Stay," he ordered.

"Yes," Methos said. He laid his hand on Joe's forehead, as he had done so often during the past week. "You're cooler. You should sleep better."

"Aspirin?"

"Are you in pain?"

"No."

Methos smiled. "Then no. Sleep. I'll be here."

"Methos, don't be mad," Joe said. "I don't like being sick. You know I'm a lousy patient."

Methos stroked his hair back and then pressed him back onto the pillow. "Yes. I just forgot. Rest." Gratefully, Joe did just that. They could talk in the morning, he thought drowsily.

 

* * *

It took three more days before Methos was satisfied he wasn't going to commit suicide by going back to work. He and Methos hadn't discussed the strange outburst that night, and Joe couldn't really figure it out. He put it down to Methos being tired and annoyed, but he had an uneasy feeling that he'd missed something important, that he had broken something irrevocably in their friendship. But he could find no evidence of anything but concern and a little impatience when Joe pushed too hard to return to normal.

He did that only because he knew he couldn't rely on the help. Next time he got sick, he'd be on his own again and no Methos to care. He didn't dare enjoy it or get used to it. It was a one off, he knew that. He'd relied on one person all his life, and that was all he could count on.

Still, Methos hovering like a hen with one chick was novel and now Joe wasn't feeling so crap, he could appreciate the irony of one of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse fussing about him. It wasn't like Methos was actually a nuisance. He worked in the bar in the same, capable way he always had done, and Joe had to admit that it was good to have the help - and the company - while he was still getting back to full strength.

A week after he returned to work, Methos had gone back to his own apartment but was still helping out in the bar. It had been a quiet night, and they were relaxing near closing time, Methos with coffee, Joe with something harder. Joe was pretending to believe the crap coming out of Methos' mouth about Titus Marconus. Vomitoriums indeed. But the old guy was amusing himself, which was amusing Joe, and he wouldn't have stopped his fun for anything.

It was the first night since he come back to work that he hadn't felt wrecked at the end of the evening, and he felt almost completely fit again. His good mood lasted exactly ten seconds after MacLeod came into the bar and threw the coaster down. Joe recognised it immediately. "Liam O'Rourke," he said, his gut twisting.

For Methos' benefit, Mac quickly recapped the sorry history of his involvement with the terrorist, and the jailing of his girlfriend, before heading out to look for Amanda. It didn't surprise Joe to see Methos get up to go after him - but it clearly surprised the Scot, and it hurt Joe to see Mac so oblivious to the offence he gave to his friend in questioning his actions. Methos claimed to be going for Amanda's sake. Only Blind Freddy and MacLeod couldn't see it was mainly to protect the Highlander.

Joe told Mike to go home and he locked the door before using the phone. He needed more information about O'Rourke and he knew where to get it. But then there was a step behind him, a sharp pain in his shoulder and the world disappeared into a dark and echoing tunnel.

 

* * *

He woke tied into a chair next to a very much alive, and extremely pissed, female Immortal. "Ooh, wait until I get my hands on that guy," she growled.

"You okay?" Joe asked. His head still spun and he felt vaguely nauseous. He hoped he wouldn't throw up.

"I'm mad as hell, Joe, but apart from that... they didn't hurt you, did they?"

"Nah, only my pride," he said, mostly truthfully. "You know they're using us as bait."

He almost could hear her roll her eyes. "No kidding, Joe. And I bet the boy scout is on his way - just tell me he's got Methos with him, please tell me he's got _that_ much sense."

"They left together. I guess he's with him."

"That's something, I suppose."

 

* * *

It was an hour before MacLeod arrived, and Joe was horrified to see him come alone. Not as horrified as he was to see Mac agree to give up his life to save his friends. In vain, Joe yelled his protest at this fool's deal. No way was O'Rourke going to let them go - how the hell could Mac throw his life away so pointlessly?

Joe had seen a lot of bad things. Seen a lot of things that made him angry, made him sad. But to see Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod, the finest of all the Immortals, the one every Watcher hoped and prayed would take the Prize, kneel before that ugly evil bastard on that filthy floor and bare his long neck, was the worst - the absolute, take every prize going worst - thing he hoped never to see again. He didn't want to watch, but it was the last favour. The last duty he would carry out for his friend and his assignment, to record in his mind the last seconds of the brave life and the powerful Quickening that would, he damn well hoped, overwhelm and destroy O'Rourke.

Except he didn't have to watch. He should have realised Methos wouldn't really have abandoned the Scot _or_ his friends, and even though they weren't safe by a long way, those first few shots were like the last trumpet. They would be saved, he knew it in his bones. All he and Amanda had to do was keep out of the way of the heroes.

 

* * *

And so it was, but somehow it wasn't as satisfying as he imagined it. Duncan took O'Rourke's head, but the Quickening hurt him, it was obvious, more than usual, and Methos watched the fight and its conclusion with a grim, unreadable expression on his face. As Mac walked away, muttering 'never again', Methos herded Joe and Amanda to his car, apparently solicitous of Joe's welfare, but casting a worried look every now and then back in the direction the Highlander had taken.

Amanda was bubbling over with adrenaline, and insisted on champagne. "Amanda, it's four am," Joe pointed out, even though he too felt the need to exorcise the fear and the worry he had felt for hours.

"You own a bar, don't you, Joe? MacLeod will pay for it."

Methos snorted and Joe said, "yeah, right," but still they ended up back at Le Blues Bar, collecting a couple of bottles before going to the barge. MacLeod was already there, seemingly over the quickening, and after taking a few minutes to clean up from his various battles with fist, gun and sword, perfectly willing to partake in the refreshment.

Joe waited for a drink to be given to him as he sat on the only chair in the place, the futon. Amanda flitted around, running on nervous energy. Methos was opening one of the champagne bottles. Joe saw Mac come and lean on the bar next to him, and speak quietly. Methos' expression didn't alter until he got the cork out of the bottle, and then he just gave Mac a little smile and handed Mac the bottle. He said something which, together with his gestures, seemed to be saying, 'just going out for some fresh air,' and then he got his coat and went topside.

Mac appeared content with whatever he'd said. He poured out three glasses and gave one each to Amanda and to Joe, sitting on the floor in front of the futon near the fire and asking them about how they'd been captured. Now the excitement was over, and they were safe, the alcohol and the residual drug hit Joe like a freight train, and he was glad to rest his pins and talk. Amanda bounced between solicitude and righteous anger - she had been fairly rattled, Joe realised. It wasn't the first time a psycho had kidnapped her to bait MacLeod, and Joe felt it was getting old for all of them. Not for the first time, Joe thought they all paid a high price for the Highlander's friendship. But then, Mac paid a high price for _giving_ that friendship, and for being the man he was.

The same thought seemed to have struck MacLeod too, who went out of his way to state, in a way he rarely did and never in public, his appreciation for both Joe and Amanda. Damn, Mac even made him all teary and Joe knew then that whatever price they paid for being around him, was small compared to the undoubted honour and pleasure they gained from it.

But where was Methos? If anyone should receive thanks, it was him, after that Butch Cassidy stunt. He'd been up top for a while now.

Mac and Amanda were talking in low voices, back on the futon, so Joe used the john and then went up on the deck to see what was keeping the old man out in the cold.

Methos was leaning on one of the hatch covers, staring off down the length of the Seine. He didn't move or react to Joe come to stand beside him, or look his way. Joe put a hand on Methos' arm and was shocked to find it was trembling violently. Then Methos brushed an impatient hand across his face, and Joe realised the man was crying. And had been for some time.

"Oh, man," Joe said quietly. "What's wrong?" Methos shook his head, and wouldn't look at him. "Is it Mac? Did he say something?"

"He...." And then Methos shook his head again.

"Come here," Joe commanded, and pulled on the arm closest to him. With a sharp sob, Methos came into his embrace. "Hey, hey," Joe soothed, stroking Methos' hair. "What the hell happened?"

No answer for a very long time. Methos shuddered hard but made not a sound. Joe just held on, patting and murmuring into Methos' ear. It was Methos who pushed away finally, sniffling and wiping his face awkwardly. "You wanna share? Or do we just pretend this never happened?" Joe asked. He patted his pocket - yes, amazingly, he did have a clean handkerchief, which he handed over. Methos wiped his eyes. "Come on, troubles shared and all that."

"It's just me," Methos said in a half choked voice. "MacLeod is just MacLeod and there's not a damn thing any of us can do about it."

"Does this have anything to do with why you cut it so fine tonight?" Joe suddenly realised what must have happened. "He was really there on his own, wasn't he? He left you behind."

Methos turned to look out over the water. "I would have lost him. He was going to hand himself over for you two and he wouldn't let me help. He would have done the same for me, for anyone. And all that... that _person_ , all that he is, would have disappeared. For fucking _nothing_."

"Thanks a whole bunch, Methos," Joe said, slightly offended.

Methos whirled. "Don't you see, Joe? O'Rourke would have killed you anyway."

"Yeah, I figured," Joe admitted.

"You know that, I know that. Why didn't he? Why does he want to die, when... when I want him to live.... I've always just wanted him to live." He put his wrist across his mouth. "I'm going to lose him, Joe," he whispered. "I can't save him from himself. I can save him from everyone else, but not from Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. And the failure is killing me. Will kill me. I don't think I can stay and watch him destroy himself any more."

He pulled his coat tightly around himself as if he was cold, and his voice shook. "I'm going home. Tell him... tell him I'll see him around some time."

Joe grabbed his arm as he turned to go. "And will I see you again?"

The streetlight caught the trace of tears and the bleak expression. "I don't know," he said softly.

Joe shook the arm he held. "Methos, Mac's not the only one who needs you around." That was as much as he dared to say - and it wasn't enough.

Gently, Methos freed himself from Joe's grip, and a grim smile played on his lips. "No one _needs_ me. I think that's half my problem. Goodbye, Joe."

Joe opened his mouth to protest, but Methos was already off the boat, walking swiftly away down the quay. If he still had his legs, Joe would have run after him, but yelling after him in the pre-dawn was an indignity unworthy of either of them. And a pointless one at that.

"Where's Methos?"

Joe turned at the sound of Mac's voice. "Gone," he said curtly.

"Gone? But he didn't say goodbye." Joe saw the Scot's brow wrinkle up in puzzlement.

"He did. Just not to you."

"Did I offend him? I was trying to thank him. Damn it, what do I have to do to reach the man?" Mac said with a bitterness Joe wasn't expecting and something inside him broke.

"I dunno, MacLeod," he snapped. "All I know is there's a guy with his arms held out towards you, and you're too fucking blind to see it."

"Joe?"

"He's gone, Mac. Gone and none of us will see him again, that's what I think. Good work, whatever it was you did or said tonight, but some of us were counting on the old bastard being around for a while."

Macleod gripped his shoulders. "When did he leave?" he said roughly.

"About two minutes ago. Look." Joe pointed to where they could see a dark coated figure walking slowly along the river.

"Fuck," Mac swore. He bounded down the gangplank and ran in long, easy strides down the quay.

Joe watched, his heart sinking, as MacLeod gained on the figure of their friend, reached him and grabbed him. Even at this distance, Joe could tell Methos was startled and angry, shoving away from Mac's grip on his shoulders. The faint sound of shouting drifted back to him on the cold pre-dawn air. He watched the two men face off to each other, and Methos turn to walk away, but then Mac grabbed him away and swung him into a full-bodied hug. Joe wasn't sure but he thought Methos' arms reached around MacLeod.

 _So there is a God,_ he thought bleakly. _And he hates me._

Time for him to leave. But he wasn't done with this little drama yet, because Amanda emerged from the hatch, Mac's long coat clutched around her. "Where's Methos and where's Duncan?" she asked sleepily. Joe pointed silently to the two figures now fairly obviously doing more than just hugging each other. Her mouth opened in a soundless 'O' of astonishment.

"I figure you and me are third wheels now," he said bitterly.

She touched his face. "Oh, Joe." She kissed his cheek. "Let's share a taxi back to your apartment - do you think you could lend me your couch for a few hours' sleep? I think I'd like to be gone by the time they get back."

"Sure," he said dully. He didn't really want the company, and he sure as hell didn't want to talk about Mac and Methos, but on the other hand, he had nothing against Amanda and it _was_ late - or too early, depending on your definition. The dawn was already breaking.

"I'll call us a taxi," she said. "Wait for me here."

 _Like I have a choice_ , he thought. Mac now had Methos pressed against the wall, and it didn't take binoculars to work out they were kissing. The clue bus hadn't just hit them, it had knocked them flat. At least he could now Watch two for one. If it lasted, and personally he gave it five minutes past the first argument over the Horsemen. Bet he knew whose shoulder they'd be crying on over that.

Amanda didn't give him any trouble - maybe she sensed his depressed mood - and curled up on the sofa in one of his T-shirts, thankfully without wanting to talk.

Sleep just wouldn't come, and when, a few hours later, Amanda got up and began to tip toe around, he called out that he was awake.

"Do you want coffee, Joe? I've got a plane to catch."

"Nah, leave it," he said, his head throbbing, and feeling achy and miserable from the lack of sleep and the abuse the night before. "You head out."

She had dressed and now bent over him as he sat propped up on one elbow. "Look after yourself, Joe." She kissed his forehead. "It's never as bad as you think."

If she'd been a guy, he'd have snapped at her, but he knew she meant well. "Yeah, okay. Catch you around?"

"Maybe in a few weeks. Um. Tell MacLeod... say, good luck."

"Okay," he said, lying through his teeth.

She blew him a kiss as she headed out the door.

And now he was alone. Get used to it, he thought.

Damn, he felt like shit. But enough of feeling sorry for himself - it wasn't like things would improve anytime soon, and he'd lost enough time as a Watcher and bar owner lately.

He hauled himself out of bed, and after some aspirin, two strong cups of coffee and a cold shower, he felt human enough to go downstairs and see if O'Rourke's goons had left a mess, and what Mike was up to. His manager had it all in hand - the broken glass from the break-in was cleared up, and he'd already arranged a glazier to come to repair the damage.

All Joe had to do was get on with both of his jobs. Strangely, the will to do so was lacking, and even Mike commented on his lack of enthusiasm, a comment Joe ignored, determined to see out his shift.

It was a quiet evening, and he was looking at the accounts, leaning on the bar, about a half hour before it shut. The door opening and closing made him look up. Oh _great_ , he thought, grimacing. _Look who's here._ Mac and Methos walked in, and Joe knew from the happy, carefree look on their faces that things had gone well. Mac had a proprietorial hand on Methos' shoulder, a liberty the old man would normally have complained about. No sign of a complaint that Joe could see.

He tried hard not to growl as they came up to the bar, but smiling was beyond him. Methos noticed that, at least. "Joe? Did you get any sleep?" The solicitude, genuine though it was, hurt like hell.

"Enough," he said. "Beer and a shot, right?"

He poured the drinks without waiting for an answer. Mac and Methos exchanged looks, and Methos squeezed Mac's hand. Mac slid off the stool. "Just going to pay a call," he announced and strode off to the men's room.

Joe avoided looking at Methos, and turned his back, forced Methos to finally call his name. "Yeah?" he said rudely.

"What have I done?"

"Nothing, Adam. I'm just busy."

Methos looked pointedly at the empty bar. "Yes, I can see," he said with heavy irony. "Can't you just tell me if you're angry with me? Or is it MacLeod?"

"It's neither, okay? Maybe I just decided hanging around Immortals was bad for my health. It's also a violation of my oath and I know you don't set much store by such things, but I try to. So you go play with your own kind, and we'll all be fine."

"Oh, back to that, I see. Joe...."

"Can it, Adam."

Methos narrowed his eyes at his rudeness, but his retort was aborted with the return of his new lover. Mac looked at the stand off between his friends. "What's going on?"

"Nothing, Macleod, absolutely nothing," Joe said cuttingly, glaring at Methos. "But I'm too busy to chat, so I'll see you later. Mike! Can you take over here?" He nodded curtly at his two visitors. "Good night." Then he headed out to the office, and out the back door, before he got involved in explaining his behaviour.

His heart was thumping as hard as his head by the time he got back up the stairs, and he headed straight for the whiskey. Fuck. He knew that wouldn't be enough to keep them away, but maybe Methos would stay away long enough for him to get his feet back under him. So to speak, anyway.

He poured himself a triple and gulped back a good slug. His hands were shaking. He needed to sit down.

He wiped his face and found his fingers came away wet. Stupid old pathetic fool. But he kept seeing the joy in Methos' eyes as he looked at Mac. He had to admit it was beautiful, even if seeing it was killing him.

A pounding. On the door, not in his head. He ignored it, but his visitor refused to go.

He looked through the spy hole. Methos. "Go away, I'm going to bed," he yelled.

"Open up, Dawson, or I'll knock it down," came the shout.

"Fuck off, Adam!"

His answer was a hard thud - damn him, he really was trying to knock it down!

He released the door but unfortunately Methos didn't fall through it - he just stood on the other side and glared. "Are you going to invite me in or play silly buggers all bloody night?"

"I don't want you here, in or out. I thought made that clear."

"All you made clear is that you're angry about something, and given the way you're behaving, I suspect it's over me. I'm not leaving, Joe, if I have to camp out here all night."

Joe stepped aside, indicating a sarcastic welcome, or so he thought. Methos swept in, saw the blankets on the sofa. "Amanda?"

"Any of your business?"

"My, my, it's a bit early for the Grinch act, Joe? Now, will you tell me plainly what's the problem, or do I have to threaten violence?"

"You don't scare me even slightly, Methos. And I told you - there's no problem. A man can decide a friendship's over, can't he?"

Methos paled. "Why? For God's sake, Joe - after all this time, after all we've been through. After last night...."

"Yeah, after a night when I got drugged and kidnapped because I'm too damn close to my assignment and his... his _friend_ ," he said, twisting the word to mean 'lover'.

"That's never bothered you before." Methos pulled up a chair, and sat. "It's me - something I said. About leaving? I was tired, Joe, and upset...."

"Well, you got over that in a hurry, didn't you?" Joe couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Methos stared. "Is _that_ what this is about? Me and Duncan? But he said... Joe, you were the one who _told_ him. I mean, I _owe_ this to you."

"Good for me then." He sat down too, realising Methos wouldn't leave no matter what said. God, he was so fucking tired.

"You didn't get any sleep, did you?"

"No."

"Joe, you're still getting over...."

"Enough!" he shouted. "Methos, you're not my mother, my wife or my lover. I don't want you telling me how to eat, when to sleep - like I said. I'm mortal, you're Immortal. Stick by Mac, and leave me be."

Methos tilted his head quizzically. "Why? Why do I have to choose?" His tone was surprisingly lacking in rancour and it defused Joe's own anger.

"Because, man. That's the way of things. Please, go home. I'm tired and cranky."

"No, I can't," Methos said, shaking his head. "I... I can't make that choice. I've already told Mac. He agrees."

His brain was running out of juice and that last sentence made no sense at all. "Told him what?"

Methos moved his chair closer, and to Joe's shock, took his hands in his. "I can't choose between him and you. I don't want to, even if I could." Methos began to rub Joe's hands. "You're cold."

"It's late," Joe whispered. He felt tears threatening again and he needed to get Methos out of here. "Listen, Methos, I want to go to bed."

"Let me join you and warm you up?"

Startled, Joe pulled his hands free. "What the _hell_? Methos, that ain't even slightly funny."

"It wasn't meant to be funny."

"So a comfort fuck is okay with Mac?"

"MacLeod has nothing to do with this. This is about you and me, Joe. How I feel, how you feel. And I'm not leaving tonight until I know you and I are at peace."

Joe stood and pushed the chair away. "I told you, go home. I mean it, Methos. I don't know what you're up to, what you're playing at, and I don't care. I'm too old to be jerked around."

"But not old enough to listen, obviously. Joe, I know you're in love with me...."

He tried not to sound startled. "Oh boy, in your dreams, Methos."

"Crap, Joe - you talk in your sleep, did you know that?"

Joe froze. "You son of a _bitch_."

"Why? For just being there? Or for feeling the same?"

"No... no, you love Mac. You always have." Joe felt weak and suddenly Methos was there, taking his arm and helping him sit. And then he was being held, his face against Methos' stomach.

"Yes. Help me out here, Joe." He could hear Methos' deep voice rumbling through his body, a curiously comforting sound. "I've never been in this situation before. In love with an Immortal _and_ a mortal at the same time. God, I've never been in love with two people at the same time, ever. Not once in five thousand years."

Joe didn't know what to say. He felt overwhelmed, exhausted, his thoughts shattering into a thousand places. And then he was crying again, from weariness and shock, shameful tears slipping down down his face, cooling in his beard. "Go home," he mumbled, even as Methos' arms tightened.

"I really don't think I can," Methos said softly. He knelt, and took Joe's face in his hands. "Will you let me stay? Just to hold you? Nothing more."

"What about Mac?"

Methos made a show of examining Joe's narrow bed. "No, I really don't think he would fit."

Joe smacked his leg. "Moron."

Methos looked at him fondly. "That's the Joe I know and love." He cupped Joe's face. "Come on. Let's go to bed. Talk in the morning."

As Joe stared, still wondering if this was a fatigue hallucination, Methos kissed him on the cheek, startling him. "Methos!"

"I'm sorry, you just looked like you needed it."

"Please tell me you're not fucking with my head. Promise me."

Methos laid a hand solemnly on his heart. "I am not fucking with your head." He grinned mischievously. "I'd be lying if I said I had no plan to fuck with any other part of your anatomy."

"Methos!"

"I'm sorry, Joe, you just walked into that one. Can I stay, can I, please?"

"You are truly evil, Methos."

Methos pulled him to his feet. "You know, I was thinking of putting that on my business cards? Adam Pierson, Son of Satan. Has a ring to it to it."

As soon as Joe was upright, he was hugged again. He pulled away, somewhat embarrassed. "I dunno, Methos. Are you sure about this? You only just got together with Mac."

"And we spent a lot of today talking about you. Joe, Mac has prior claims on him too."

"Amanda?"

"Yes. And I would no more get my knickers in a twist about him sleeping with her, than he will about me being with you. Tonight, or in the future. This is _not_ a comfort fuck."

"No fuck at all, you said."

Methos made a face. "Indeed I did. Come to bed, Joe Dawson."

 

* * *

Easier said than done. For all the times Methos had stayed over, they were unusually awkward with each other, trying not to bump into each other on the way to the bathroom, not looking at each other as they stripped down. Joe knew Methos slept in boxers, with a T-shirt if it was cold, but tonight? No sex, he'd said, and if he was honest, that had been a relief. But sleeping with clothes on with a would-be lover seemed unnecessarily virginal. It was Methos who let him off the hook. "Look, I'm going to strip down to skin, do you mind? I want to feel you next to me," he added almost shyly.

"Sure, no problem. You don't mind if I do too?" The insouciance sounded unconvincing, even to him.

"Can I... would you mind if I did it?"

"Undressed me?"

Methos nodded. Joe made a 'go for it' gesture and Methos, still wearing his underwear, came over to the bed. He traced a finger along Joe's cheek, and then pulled his face forward so he could kiss him. Methos tasted... dark, warm. Alive. Still absorbed in exploring his mouth, Joe barely noticed the fingers at his undershirt's hem until it was being lifted up over his head. Then he was pushed back, and his boxers were carefully pulled down over his ruined legs. At least he's seen them before, Joe thought, but it didn't stop him wishing he had a whole body to offer. Methos stared, and Joe wondered if he'd changed his mind. "Oh, Joe," he said reverently.

"Aw, man, you just spent the night with MacLeod, and you're gawping at me?"

"Different but still beautiful," Methos said quietly.

"You're still dressed," Joe pointed out, but the disparity was quickly remedied, Methos stripping off unselfconsciously, revealing a long powerful body that Joe had only had glimpses of before.

Methos turned off the light. "Move over, it's cold," he said unromantically but with truth. Joe held the covers and Methos climbed in beside him, and immediately took him in his arms.

It was sweet and it was easy and it felt just exactly right. Methos' long body fitted perfectly against him, his warm skin like silk against his own hairiness. Joe felt the tightness in his chest ease, the ice that had encased his heart since the night before melt to nothing. "When?" he whispered.

"When you were sick, I finally knew. But really when? I don't know. Leaving for Cardiff hurt so much, and leaving that way... I missed you, Joe. Missing him, missing you - it was hell."

"How can this work, Methos?" Joe asked, losing his confidence at the mention of MacLeod.

Methos kissed his forehead. "Shhh. Not tonight. But you have to trust me. And if you don't trust me, trust him. He doesn't want you hurt. No more than I do."

Methos was a natural snuggler it seemed, and Joe liked to hold, so arranging two big male bodies in a small bed was easier than it looked. And the sleep was sweeter than any he'd had in a very long time.

Morning came too soon, and along with it, second, third and fourth thoughts. Methos was being kind, Joe realised. Letting him down easily. And the thought made his gut churn. There wasn't a graceful way of getting out of bed with Methos holding him close, so he resigned himself to waiting, and being cheerful and not in the least possessive when his Immortal partner woke up. He forced himself to smile casually as he felt Methos stirring. "Hi," he said carefully.

But he didn't fool Methos for a second. "Joe. I thought I'd dreamt it all." He stretched up for a lingering kiss, and despite himself, Joe felt himself respond, his cock harden, even though he knew it was all an illusion. Methos caressed his face. "I bet you're wondering what the hell you're doing here with me."

"No."

"Liar," Methos said softly, and smiled. "I can hear you thinking, you damn Watcher. Stop it. Life's hard enough without making up problems."

Methos nuzzled under his chin. and even though he knew he should be more cautious, a bubble of happiness fill Joe's chest. "I never dreamed it could be so easy," Methos murmured.

"Maybe it ain't, "Joe felt compelled to point out.

Methos lifted his head, but his dark eyes still smiled at him. "I never said it would be simple, Joe. One question. Do you want this?"

Joe thought. Only one answer, despite the reservations. "Yes. Damn it, I do want it." Methos' smile grew broader. "Well, then we're half way there. Can you bear to share my attentions, such as they are? No white picket fences, I'm afraid. But love, loyalty and friendship. From both of us. Is that enough? It's less than you deserve."

Joe crushed Methos to him. "Oh fuck, Methos. You're offering me the world. All I dreamed for more than a year."

Methos went still. "Oh, shit. You listened to me moan about Mac all this time? I'm so sorry."

Joe captured his mouth and kiss him long and hard. "Stop it. Mac's like this sun god, we're just little moons trapped in his orbit. You have to love him. Or go mad."

"A tad poetic for this time of the morning, Joe." But Methos was still smiling. "I really do love you, you know. I love Mac too - it's very odd all of this, trying to get it straight in my head. He helped me a great deal. He's been there himself. With Tessa and Amanda."

"Huh, don't compare me to Amanda, please."

"Would not dream of doing do. For a start," Methos said slyly, his hand coming up to Joe's mid region and clasping his cock, "I don't seem to recall her having one of these."

Joe arched into the knowing touch, too long deprived of another's hand to resist reacting like a teenager. "Oh, uh," he groaned, thrusting blindly into Methos' grasp. "Methos! Oh!"

It seemed like no time before he came, and Methos was rubbing his seed into his stomach in wide warm circles. Joe felt limp - how long since he had shared this act with another soul? "Oh, man, " he whispered.

"Your face - damn, you're beautiful when you come," Methos said quietly, rubbing his face against Joe's. "It's like when you play - that total concentration."

"Methos. I need... I really have to taste you."

He felt Methos move in shock. "Are you sure? You don't have to."

"Don't start telling me what I want to do in bed, kid, or I'll have to whack you," he growled. Methos grinned.

"Far be it from me." He held the covers back, exposing his proud erection and his lean, perfect body. "I am at your disposal."

Joe took his own sweet time, licking from the back of Methos' long throat, to the base of his firm, flat belly, and by the time he was done, the body underneath him was trembling. Methos never said a word, but his hands were fisting the sheets. His cock was weeping a little, and Joe touched his tongue to the clear fluid. Methos arched off the bed with a wordless cry, and Joe held him back down by the narrow hips, before taking him in all the way.

It had been a long time since he has tasted another so intimately, and it was good. Salty and clean and alive, no hint of his partner's great age in his taste nor his fevered reactions. Methos thrashed as if he had never had sex before, reacting to every move of Joe's tongue, every caress, his soft moans of pleasure filling the small apartment with song. The thick warmth pulsed across Joe's tongue and he relished every drop of it, the feel of the thick cock throbbing, silky and alive.

He almost wanted to ask if he was as good as MacLeod, but knew the question was worthy of none of them. Methos' sweating, happy, exhausted face told him all he needed to know. "How are you going to keep up your strength, old man?" he joked.

"I have no idea. But look at this way - if I fight with him, I can come to you for sympathy and vice versa."

"Nah. I'll throw you back for the entertainment value." But then he sobered. "How the hell do we make this work?"

Methos held his face. "With love and kindness and good will, Joe, all things are possible. Mac's not going to compete with you for my time, and I suspect you will be frequently busy. You will have to accept that I love you both, but frankly, given that you are mortal, you have the higher claim."

Now there was a thing. "Methos, you know I'm going to get older. And probably sick. You don't want...."

"No," Methos said fiercely. "Please don't, Joe. I know this is all ahead of us - why do you think I was so bloody short-tempered while you were ill? I _know_. Seeing you - frail like that - hurt. But it doesn't matter. I want all of you, all of it. Your life, your good times, your bad. Please don't try and protect me. Not me, of all people." He kissed Joe gently. "Let my longevity be my gift to you. Let your joy in life be yours to me."

Joe felt tears coming to his eyes, which was not the way he wanted to spend the post-coital haze. "You ain't gonna be mushy all the time, are ya?" he asked brusquely.

"Not at all. In fact, I need to pee. Will you excuse me?" He slithered out of bed with the grace that he seemed so often to conceal and then bent over to gently kiss away the tears he had not, after all, ignored, from under Joe's eyes. "It will be all right. Do you trust me?"

"Body and soul, Methos," Joe said hoarsely. "Body and fucking soul."

Methos grasped his hand. "And I you, Joe Dawson. Until the day I die."

Joe shook the hand holding his impatiently. "You just make sure that's a long way off, you hear?"

Methos bowed. "As you wish." His eyes crinkled. "Now, bathroom, coffee, breakfast and maybe a short stroll to the barge to torment MacLeod. What say you?"

"I say, lead on."

"That's my big brawny lover man."

Joe groaned. He had a feeling that Methos in love was more insufferable than even he, Joe, had imagined. And he wouldn't have had it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written nearly twenty years ago under another pseudonym. It hasn't been revised (or reread by me) since then.
> 
> I am posting this and my other stories from this period purely so people can read them if they choose. I won't be reading comments, and don't care if you leave kudos. I'm dumping them and running.
> 
> Having said that, I worked hard on them, and I hope they still entertain someone out there.


End file.
